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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29759745">Reconstructive Surgery Can't Fix My Anxiety (Cancelled- being rewritten)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pres310/pseuds/Pres310'>Pres310</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gravity Falls</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abusive Relationships, Asexual Ford Pines, Bill Cipher Being Bill Cipher, Bill Cipher meddling in relationships, Bill is addressed in second person POV, Character Study, Demonic Possession, Dont ask why I did this because I don’t know either, Everybody else is third person POV, Fiddleford is gay, Ford Pines Needs a Hug, Ford projects his feelings onto Bill, Forgiveness, Gay Ford Pines, HMU lol, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Music, Internalized Homophobia, LGBTQ history, Lesbian Mabel Pines, M/M, Manipulative Bill Cipher, Memory Loss, Multi, Not Beta Read, Other, POV Alternating, PTSD Ford Pines, Queer Stan Pines, Queer Themes, Recovering Fiddleford H. McGucket, Siblings, Slow Burn, Surrealism, The author explores their issues via Graviy Falls fanfic, Trans Dipper Pines, Two chapters I have planned have titles that, Young Ford Pines, abstract writing, if any of you want to change that, influenced by surrealist art, not b llford, say hi to my therapist y'all, sound NSFW but I'm a minor and there is no NSFW content in rhem, thats nasty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:42:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,331</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29759745</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pres310/pseuds/Pres310</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
      <p>Ford Kinnie lookin ass smh</p>
    </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bill Cipher &amp; Ford Pines, Dipper Pines &amp; Ford Pines, Dipper Pines &amp; Stan Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket/Author, Fiddleford H. McGucket/Ford Pines, Ford Pines &amp; Mabel Pines, Ford Pines &amp; Stan Pines, Mabel Pines &amp; Stan Pines</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Alrighty Aphrodite - Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Ford Kinnie lookin ass smh</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>       You divine creature, you wretched being, you muse. You, your watchful eye, you read this not knowing that this story is not about you. You are as dead as the leaves on the ground, as dead as the ashes you left, as dead as a pinned butterfly. Everybody knows who you are, but nobody will ever see you again.</p><p><br/>        You once sat beneath a halo of eyes and were once drawn in only the richest of gold, silhouette cast in pure opulence. Steel bones once cast the shape of your mortal body, lace frills in mourning black once decorated your neck. You once used the finest pigments to give yourself a human face and you were once the figure of power, of intelligence, of the taste of blood. You were once snapping wolves’ teeth, once the nimble fingers spinning wool over human eyes. You could once spin gold from straw.</p><p><br/>        You were once the falling guillotine blade, both predator and prey. You were both the head beneath and the chopping block. You were once the goddess in golden stays, the angel in the hall of mirrors beckoning the hand of power, indulgent and rich and licentious. You were once the whispering of frenzied anger, the hiss of the snake, the face in the smoke above the funeral pyre, the firework burn of shock.</p><p><br/>        You were once the pied piper, you were once the mice, you were once a stained glass window. You were once the inscription: “it has been a hundred years since our children have gone”.</p><p><br/>        All those lifetimes ago, you suppose you sat in the corpse of a universe, the bacteria eating away at empty bones. No creature had brought this about, let alone survived long enough to witness the afterglow- that fed the fire in your stomach and made you hunger. It made you so, so ravenous, insatiable.</p><p><br/>        You were once both Venus and her lovely Kythera. You were once the picture of beauty, taking on a million faces to tempt a million minds. You were once the place of worship for those who fell in love with the theoretical, the reason math was once a religion. You were the temple, first and last. You were the worst and cruelest shaping hand, you raised and whipped with the touch of a velvet glove, only the richest velvet you could conjure. You were once roman concrete- impossible.</p><p><br/>        You were once the reason nobody spoke the name of Dread Persephone- you were the death’s head moth and poison pomegranate seeds that scared the mycenaean greeks. You were once Kore, ancient Despoina. The revelry and life and death and screaming and divine ripping apart of Persephone’s mystery cults. The Greeks feared invoking you by speaking your true name, but little did they know, your name changed with every human you meet. Your first name was impossible to human throats and minds. You predated silly little Hades, fear of you is built into human’s breakable bones.</p><p><br/>        You were once the taste of blood in every bite the rich took. You were their coins and currency, their blood and bone, their heart and brain. You were once the king of the world and the dirt beneath their feet. In your many eyes, humanity would be nowhere without you, but once could bet that you would lose that arguing point.</p><p><br/>        You used to be inconceivable, but whatever happened to that? Whatever happened to you? Were you simply forgotten?</p><p><br/>        It is imperative to me that you know- while you may play this game of chess, you are not who this story is about. May your corpse remember this.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Ball Lightning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Stanford Pines was six years old when he first learned that he was different.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hmmm this could have been better.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>        Stanford Pines was, ironically, six years old when he learned that he was different. Different meaning negative, not like negative charge but like hushed voices and thrown glances. </p><p><br/>        It was a cloudy day in New Jersey, as all of them had been thus far, on the rusty school playground. The clouds always hung heavy and dark, the wind always a smoker’s cough. The air held the salty, acrid tang of seaside and pollution. Little Stanford chased his brother, Stanley, around their rocky playground- they had been playing a game of tag by themselves when hunting for the Jersey Devil on their school playground had proven fruitless. Stanford slipped on the rocky dirt, suddenly finding himself thrown forward and the impact colliding his teeth into his lip. For a confused moment, he looked down at the hands that had caught his fall- he’d never seen himself bleed, let alone seen the little pebbles stuck in his shredded palms. Shock at this new experience kept any tears at bay- he’d heard of blood, yeah, seen other kids get hurt. He never thought it would happen to him.</p><p><br/>        Amalthea Actias had been deemed “strange” long before Stanford Pines ever had been, ever since she tried to set the class’s pet fish free into the sea. So she read her books, excluded from the others, in the corner of the playground- in the exact corner of the playground Stanford had just slipped and fell into. The wisp of a girl had bony wrists and her mirror-colored eyes never seemed to blink as she walked over and helped him to his feet.</p><p><br/>        “You have six fingers,” her nose scrunched up, and she ran away before Stanford could thank her. She ran towards the crowd of other kids, a reporter on a mission. Stanford glanced down at his hands- they wrote like all the other kids, worked just fine. Sure, sometimes they looked a little off, but nobody had ever pointed out his extra fingers like that. Of course he knew he had them, but…</p><p><br/>*.*.*</p><p><br/>        Stanford- now simply “Ford”- Pines was ten years old when he was reminded, again, that the way he was different was not a good one.</p><p><br/>        The fair had come to their rainy town- a spectrum of lights glared brightly off of the glassy puddles and darkened sea, every sharp angle and eye reflected in a sort of rippling otherworld. The sweet and fatty air wafted for nearly a mile outside of the bustling parking lot carnival, thick and syrupy. It was cheap and quick and the most fun the Pines twins had ever had in a long time.</p><p><br/>        “Ooh, Ford- look-” Stan nudged his brother’s side. Pulled out of his ogling at the flashing light bulbs, Ford followed his twin’s pointed finger to a tent made of silk like moonstones. White and shimmering blue when the light hit it just right, it was a mysterious and out-of-place visitor in all of the business of the fair. A sign in front of it read simply; “Fortune Teller”. Ford groaned.</p><p><br/>        “That's impossible, Stanley,” He shook his head. “They’re probably a fake, like Ma.” But his brother wasn't even listening, instead already walking towards it while fishing cash out of his pocket.</p><p><br/>        “At least worth a shot!” Stanley called back as he entered the puddle-stained tent flaps. Rolling his eyes, Ford followed his brother inside, and- okay, he had to admit it. The inside looked impressive, his breath even hitched a little at the sight. A tarp covered the floor, and on top of that lay a number of blue and green rugs. A dark blue sheet of silk covered what had to have been a fold-out table, and two clear plastic vases held handfuls of peacock feathers.</p><p><br/>        “Hello, Ford and Stanley Pines,” the fortune teller hummed. Her onyx eyes were fixated on a crystalline ball in front of her- because of course she had a crystal ball.</p><p>        “She knows our names!”</p><p><br/>        “Probably a trick,” Ford hissed. His brother rolled his eyes and muttered something about lightening up, before taking a seat at the stool before the older woman.</p><p><br/>        “How much for a reading?” The Lady chuckled slow and scratchily, and in the background, Ford caught sight of a pyramid-shaped prism. It almost seemed to glow in the dim tent, which shouldn't have been possible. Curious, how curious.</p><p><br/>        “I share my gifts for free,” she sighed through lips painted wine-crimson. She looked like somebody out of a silent film, anachronistic, impossibly set into color. “But tips are always appreciated.”</p><p><br/>        Ford stood by as she took Stan’s hand and placed it over the crystal ball, and caught the awed sparkle in his brother’s eyes. At least he was having fun, even if this woman was a complete liar. At least she knew how to sell the effect.</p><p><br/>        “What do you see?” Her eyes almost seemed to glaze over, and Ford was suddenly hit with the smell of… well, he couldn't really identify it. It was a sharp hint of something strong, metallic, and salty. Something rotting, possibly, but it was gone almost as soon as it was even there.</p><p><br/>        “Oh, Stan Pines- I predict a life of adventure for you. You will travel the lands, collecting stories and hearts, you will be a modern adventurer. You will know great highs and lows, and you will selflessly sacrifice yourself to save the ones you love,” She smiled lightly. But- suddenly- her expression twisted, and she grimaced as if she tasted something sour. She wheezed, then gagged, and at the side of her table she spat out what looked like a mouthful of blood and- oh god, were those teeth? Stan pulled away in an instant, and Ford gasped. The woman gave a final retch before whipping up, her sharp gaze landing directly on Ford.</p><p><br/>        “Hey, we should get outta here-” but he could barely hear Stan.</p><p><br/>        “Devil child!” She spat. Her glare seemed to look directly into Ford. “You come here- you aim to steal from me, boy- YOU will bring about our downfall. You are the incarnation of regret itself, a liar and pervert of the sickest degree. You will never find peace if I have any say in it, you fiend-”</p><p><br/>        But Stan had already pulled Ford outside the tent before she could finish. Ford stood there, at first, in shock, his brother’s words falling on ringing ears. Then came fear, his hands shaking, and finally- exhaustion. He was only Ten, but he knew why she had said that. He looked down at his hands, six fingers and hidden scars. The handprint bruise on his wrist covered by his jacket.</p><p><br/>        “Let's go home,” he muttered.</p><p><br/>*.*.*</p><p><br/>        Ford Pines was a teenager when he learned, again, that he was different. Not only that he was different- but that something very well could be wrong. But it couldn't have been wrong, could it?</p><p><br/>        It was his first day at school after his Bar Mitzvah, and unlike most days at school, he was bouncing along, light on his feet. The celebration with his brothers had been one of the best things he’d experienced in so long, celebratory and new. He’d just arrived at his locker, when-</p><p><br/>        “So, Six-fingers,” An older boy asked. Ford internally locked up, jaw tensed and eyes focused. “Sheesh, calm down bud- I just wanted to ask you why your brother was caught stealing from the school cafeteria.”</p><p><br/>        Ford raised an eyebrow- it wasn't stealing, they needed that. Stan always said that they let him take leftovers if he needed it, and the lunch lady always discretely asked with a smile if he needed anything extra. He liked her- she was nice.</p><p><br/>        “He’s not stealing,” He answered. “That's how we get breakfast and dinner when Pa’s not gone grocery shopping in a while.”</p><p><br/>        Where he expects some sort of jab, or worse- something to physically hurt him… The boy’s face goes blank. And he nods. And he walks away. Ford wondered what was wrong with what he said- was that not normal?</p><p><br/>*.*.*</p><p><br/>        “Stan.”</p><p><br/>       “Yeah, Sixer?” The two whispered in the dark of their bedroom, the sleepless night stretching on too long.</p><p><br/>        “I think… I think something’s wrong with me,” Ford stared blankly at the wall, eyes landing on the tacky vintage poster of a mad scientist- his last birthday present- but not really looking at it particularly. </p><p><br/>        “Nothing’s wrong with you, Ford,” Stan whispered back. “Listen, of kids are being assholes about your hands again-”</p><p><br/>        “It's not just the hands,” Ford forces his eyes away from the scientist. He does look at his hands, though, the most visible abnormality he has. Visible to him, at least- because there must be something else. Something else he’s not seeing that the other kids can, that makes them turn away from him. There must be something different, maybe even special about him, that makes him feel the way he does. Like a typo in a dictionary, like a green carnation in a field full of pinks and blues. Like ball lightning- rare and bright and dangerous, so shockingly dangerous. A warning sign, something saying “keep away, don't touch me, I'm contagious.”</p><p><br/>        “I just think there’s something wrong with me.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Human Perception</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hmmm not sure how to feel about this one or the chapter length.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>        He knows it like he knows Stan is a safe space, like he knows his father’s grimace will never dissolve, like he knows the words of his science notes and all their colored ink and footnotes. He knows it like he knows the mildew smell of the air outside, he knows something is wrong with him.</p><p><br/>        He knows it like Amalthea knows why she was kicked off the cheerleading team. He knows it like the hiss of whispers like dead leaves on stony paths, like he knows to not hold her watery gaze for too long, like he knows he can never escape human perception. He knows it, unspoken, like everybody knows why Amalthea isn't seen at their school anymore.</p><p><br/>        He knows it like he knows the thrashing void of sleep, tossing him in and out of quiet night. He knows it like the tip of his tongue knows the gap in his mouth whenever he loses a tooth, knows it like the awkward space the dead and forgotten leave in their old homes and old routines. There aren't words for it, not exactly, but he knows it.</p><p><br/>        He knows it like he knows, walking out of the fair for the last time that season, that the boy working at the ticket booth has black eyes like twin Mandelbrot Sets. He couldn't remember his name, but he was a few years older than Ford, an artistic upperclassman. Ford knows it like he knows the colorful smears of paint on his jeans and like he knows the artwork the school uses to advertise the art department’s showcase. He knows it like he knows the dizziness of seeing fractals in their simplistic beauty, painted on canvas, and feeling like it was a wink thrown his way. From somebody he saw in passing a small handful of times.</p><p><br/>        He knows it like he knows the tension of words held behind teeth. He knows it like he knows the ripping of the skin on his lips. Like the pressure of teeth. Like the taste of blood, forcing back a supernova of emotions. Like wondering, like confusion, like feeling sick. Like guilt.</p><p><br/>        (You would never directly tell him, but you knew it like you knew looking down at a chess board. You knew it like looking directly into the sun, you knew it all along and you used it and how could you be so cruel?)</p><p><br/>        He knew it like he knew that he would never date somebody like Stanley did. It seemed so inconvenient- one could meet somebody new and not even know if they were interested in the poor person or not. One could make so many mistakes, and it just… it just caused too much drama. Stanley had at least one or two angry fathers after him, not that anybody but the two brothers would care.</p><p><br/>        He knew it like he knew the experience of looking out at the sea and wondering what was so special about the land that humans decided to evolve onto it. He knew it like he knew him and Stanley wanted to sail out to sea one day, he knew it like he knew the feeling of drowning.</p><p><br/>        He knew it like he knew that Stanley Pines just destroyed his ticket out of this awful town.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Comments are always appreciated! I'm always in need of feedback and ways to improve :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Silk Moths</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>When a child loses their tooth, it's natural.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I do not like this chapter but,,, I wanted to update this.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>        When most children lose their teeth, it's natural. They've outgrown their baby teeth and they've been wiggling loose for so long- it's slow coming and they know it's happening. They bleed and they can hurt, but it has to happen if they want to grow. And they leave gaps. They leave gaps in the gums, haunted houses containing the ghosts of baby teeth and baby fat- useless and dead little stumps. They begin terrifying, but they end almost thoughtlessly. Most children are used to it by the time they’ve lost their baby teeth.</p><p><br/>        Adults rarely lose their teeth, but when they do, it's often violent and sharp- it's unexpected and bloody, bright red snapping. It stains, it can't go unnoticed, it's obvious and painful and the ghost haunts bitterly. The ghost of old baby teeth has gone stale, becoming a demon of rust-and-crimson-stained towels and bruises. It rips and tears a bone from your life and turns your body to jelly-</p><p><br/>        Ford Pines nursed the cut on his lip numbly, word fizzling in and out through patches of blinding light and faint ringing in his ears. He could vaguely identify the bathroom sink below his chin- a single drop of blood stared back up at him. Gazing, watching, judging harshly. He could barely raise his shaking hands to run the faucet and wash it down- he could barely even see through his thick prescription glasses and their spiderweb cracks. So the little red eye stayed and stained, unblinking. It was too familiar, too numbing, unwelcome morphine pulling Ford under its smoky and unearthly grasp. His head pounded painfully, but it was cloudy with lightheadedness- was he sick? His stomach writhed like snakes, but his body was tired and his mouth was sour, as if he already had been. The phantom impact of the door he’d run into on the frantic scramble out of sight, away from his… his biological father, it throbbed on the bruised cut on his lip.</p><p><br/>        You should have seen the other guy (you would, eventually. You). He’s not even a part of this world anymore- he’s from another time and place, an alternate Ford Pines. The Smiling Man, a mysterious cryptid all on its own, the one cryptid that Ford would never Hunt down. Not on his own. Stan Pines was the weird space between a sweet little baby tooth ghost and the sharp loss of adult teeth. </p><p><br/>        Ford Pines clasped his hands on either side of his head, breathes growing shallower- if he died now, what would they do with him? What would happen to him? If he died now, would he have been happy with it? Pressure shifted in his head and he pressed his eyes shut, a whine unconsciously escaping his throat. The Cold porcelain of his bathroom sink counter granted him comfort, grounding from the oppressive heat of the room.</p><p><br/>        When a silk moth emerges from a cocoon, humans may look at it and ponder the magnificence of metamorphosis, or coo and smile at the cute little scrambling creature. But the moth was feeling nothing even close to cute or magnificent. Imagine shaking and thrashing violently, sick and tired and exhausted, uncomfortable in a new body and wrinkled like soaked skin. And because you're a silk moth with no mouth, you can't even eat. You would burn yourself out in a week with only one purpose and no Brains.</p><p><br/>        Ford decided he would be no Silk Moth- he would not be fragile or temporary, he would not be brainless. He would be magnificent, he would be that glittering example of metamorphosis and invention, of life.</p><p><br/>        The day Ford Pines left for college would play in his memory like an old film- distorted, crackled, he could see the lips moving but he couldn't hear or make out the words. It was a world he was long gone from, one he was no longer allowed in. It was the start of something new, all on his own- he squinted against the sun, because he couldn't remember when he’d last seen light so bright. Never mind the fact that he flinched at anything or anyone that came too close, that came into contact with him. Never mind that all the talking, all the noise- it left him snappy and pressured. He shook, he cringed, he felt so guilty because it was really just people but- but his own brain still shut down. It crowded his brain and it wouldn't stop, it wouldn't stop, it wouldn't stop, it wouldn't-</p><p><br/>        “I don't mean to sound rude, but would you quit playing that infernal Banjo?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. In a Way That Sounds Like a Confession...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hmmmm idk why but I'm having so much trouble writing this fic. I feel like I went,,,, a little too heavy with the romance this early.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>        Fiddleford McGucket’s hands were meant for two things- fiddling with Banjo strings and tinkering with metal wires. Slender and nimble, they could strum and pluck out melodies on the dinky tin-can instrument- which would have been pleasant. Charming, even, had it not been for the fact that he insisted on playing it every night. Every night not already occupied by studying or meddling with new and strange technologies was filled with the strumming of Banjo strings and songbird humming. Fiddleford’s fingers were slender and bony, the ghosts of faint freckles trailing up towards his palms, scars and nicks bumpy on his knuckles and the pads of his fingers. <br/>     <br/>        The man had hair like straw in shadow, tawny coyote fur that turned to frayed copper wire in the sun. He had the willowy body of a dancer, but seemingly lacked all of the grace of one- he was clumsy and goofy, always bouncing and stumbling around. His smile always looked like the one of a man who knew something he shouldn't- mischievous, but intriguing.</p><p> <br/>        Fiddleford’s eyes were the soft, round brown of a cow's eyes, short eyelashes lining them and glowing in direct sunlight. Sunlight lit them up to the color of whiskey as the sun set, golden and sharp, warm brown. They were the sweet, warm shade of chewy, sticky caramel, the same sticky caramel that Ford’s eyes always caught themselves on. </p><p><br/>        Fiddleford was not a perfect man- he was flighty and jumpy, he was awkward and clumsy, he could be defensive and touchy. Fiddleford was not a perfect roommate by any means, but he was Stanford Pines’ roommate. And he supposed that he would have to deal with him.</p><p><br/>        Currently, Fiddleford’s hands drummed on his knees as he stared down his textbook. Ford, dimly, felt a little bad about asking him to stop playing that Banjo of his- and even worse about calling it infernal- but at least he could now focus on his own assignment. And so, he clicked away at his typewriter, fingers chipping away at the marble of paper. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he compared his own six-fingered hands to that of Fiddleford’s, wider and larger hands compared to the bird-boned fingers of his roommate’s. They were clumsy on five-fingered keyboards, but clever with card tricks and quick with rolling dice. They were slippery and shaky when he was unsure, stained with ink from calligraphy pens.</p><p><br/>        Ford was snapped away from the comparison of their hands when he felt a weight press into his shoulder. He whipped to face Fiddleford, who now leaned on his shoulder and looked up at him with those sticky caramel eyes of his. Sticky, sweet sugar, slowly and slowly simmering over.</p><p><br/>        “Whadya say to takin’ a break?” Fiddleford whispered. “We’ve been at this for hours, this can't be good for either of us.” Ford huffed, turning back to his typewriter.</p><p><br/>        “I can't take a break until I'm done with my rough draft,” Ford muttered as he continued typing. </p><p><br/>        “Ford, you've been hunched over this desk since you got here,” Fiddleford nudged the other man’s rib cage. “I say Mr. Top Student deserves to treat himself.”</p><p><br/>        “And what gave you the authority?”</p><p><br/>        “Seeing you beat yourself up so much despite the fact that you have over a hundred in most of your classes,” Fiddleford glared.</p><p><br/>        “Incorrect,” Ford finally turned back to Fiddleford. “I have at least a high ninety in all of my classes.” Fiddleford snorted at this and sat up, returning to his previous seat.</p><p><br/>        The willowy man gathered up his things, slipping his room key into his pocket. “Fine then- I will take this walk by myself.”</p><p><br/>…</p><p><br/>        “Fine- where did you plan to walk to?”</p><p><br/>*.*.*</p><p><br/>        The weather outside Backupsmore was considerably warmer and sunnier than New Jersey, the air feeling like a fresh-baked loaf of bread. Warm and fresh, perfumed with the smell of early autumn. The two roommates walked through the trails behind the school- trees with crown-shyness arched high overhead, a mosaic of verdant heads and twisting flora.</p><p><br/>        “Y'know- I don't think I ever really asked what you're interested in,” Fiddleford commented delightedly as Ford smiled amazedly up at the treetops. “Like, outside of the whole physics-and-engineering major schtick.”</p><p><br/>        Stanford turned to look at his roommate- through the gaps in the leaves, Eros of Ancient Greece must have lost a stray arrow, because the speckled light lit up pure ambrosia in Fiddleford’s eyes. His head was crowned by a laurel wreath, a halo of light, so pure and gilded, such a wonderful natural phenomenon. His cheeks, raised by a small smile, were Athena’s golden apples, sweet and glowing with youth and joy. There is a Magic of sorts in noticing, just noticing the little things- like the little cluster of eyelashes glowing in a sunspot, or the way a person’s shirt collar fits around their neck, or the way their fingers hook onto their belt loops. There’s something so warm, like the snap of cooled caramel candy, in simply noticing.</p><p><br/>        In a tone that sounded much more like a confession, like a drunken whispered secret of something that felt much more forbidden, that sounded much more like stolen affections traded for secret time beneath lavender night skies- “Oh, I'm interested in the strange and unusual.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm having trouble writing the conflict with Stanley but boy howdy, can I write decades of gay emotional repression</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Comments are very appreciated!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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